


Playdate

by spinsterclaire



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - School, F/F, Fem-Slash, Marijuana, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-16
Updated: 2014-08-16
Packaged: 2018-02-13 08:59:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2144799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spinsterclaire/pseuds/spinsterclaire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They sit in the car behind the dumpster – graffiti splattered like blood, a nebulae of gum covering rusted planets – a real bonafide pair of adult teenagers cutting class. </p><p>Written for the "parents meeting when they take their kids to class AU" prompt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Playdate

**Author's Note:**

> I kind of followed the prompt. Kind of.
> 
> Why do all my modern AUs involve drugs?

They sit in the car behind the dumpster – graffiti splattered like blood, a nebulae of gum covering rusted planets  – a real bonafide pair of adult teenagers cutting class. They play the part well, too: old rock music blaring, a collection of lighters in the middle console, rolling papers splayed due to an AC turned full blast. There’s even a pine-tree scented air freshener dangling from the rearview mirror, a recent addition in light of last week’s episode.

“Shit, shit, shit,” Cersei had spat quickly, “Here she comes, here she comes.”

“Roll down the window. Act cool.”

“I know what to do, Taena. I’m not an idiot.”

Cersei had plopped five hearty drops of Visine into her eyes and coughed quietly into her palms to rid herself of the smoke still tickling the walls of her throat. She'd run a manicured hand through her hair, cracked her neck, mentally prepared herself for an interrogation despite the fog that had clouded the inner workings of her brain. Three, two, one, action. _I've got this, bloody hell, I've got this._

(They'd done “this” countless of times before, she and Taena, when 3:30 had snuck up on them, unawares – stuffing the evidence beneath their seats, spritzing perfume liberally into the air before their children’s grubby fingers yanked open the car doors. But getting caught never lost its horrific sheen.)

“And put these on for good measure,” Taena had instructed quickly, rummaging through the assortment of junk at her feet for a pair of D&G shades. Cersei had put them on reluctantly – as tacky and gauche as they were, all gold and gilted like the fucking Palace of Versailles in sunglass form – though the sky had been adamantly overcast all week. (And this was all to Cersei’s chagrin, who hated the cloudy climate of Yorkshire. She missed the sun of her childhood home, the sand between her toes, the faint hum of the ocean. And Jaime, too. Definitely Jaime. Perhaps that was why this dumpster hide-out had become such a common occurrence. She was stressed and sexually thwarted, a fish out of water. She _needed_ this release.)

“Principal Tarth!” Cersei had cried out in happy greeting. “What a lovely surprise.”

They’d managed to escape the situation unscathed, wiggling their way out from under incriminating queries with things like, “We just miss our little rugrats so much!” and “Have you lost weight? You look amazing!” Regardless, however, it was the way the burly woman’s nostrils had flared when met with the car’s conspicuously herby stench that had Taena and Cersei scrambling for the strongest air freshener possible.

 

In truth, though, Cersei Lannister and Taena Merryweather are 41 and 43, respectively – a pair of middle-aged women with wrinkles in the corners of their eyes, ambitions turned to stale jokes, and breasts sagging more than they did just five years prior. (“I swear gravity is even faster than my fucking husband in bed.”) Not at all what their school parking lot smoking ritual seemed to suggest.

 _At least we have these afternoons_ , they think, spreading out a thin layer of weed on the thin, white papers. A blessed sixty minutes of hazy drug-induced solace come to smoke out whatever disappointments they may feel about their lives.

But Cersei Lannister has to admit that she is slightly ashamed that these illicit gatherings have become so routine. _You’re better than this_ , she thinks to herself, while sucking the green into her lungs and letting it fuzz the edges of her (in)sanity into a pleasant softness. She’s even more ashamed, really, by the fact that she’s come to _enjoy_ these dates with the medical marijuana (the only good thing to come out of her stint in the mental institution) and company of this crass Spanish woman whose hair was 90% hairspray and whose musical taste didn't extend beyond the likes of 80's synth-pop. But perhaps that’s why she and Taena got on so surprisingly well – what with all that strange nonsense about chemistry between two people, opposites attract, the confluence of different poles. They were an odd pair, but it worked.

Perhaps chemistry, too, could explain why last Wednesday Cersei had leaned in – quite high and not all herself, mind you – and kissed the woman smack dab on the lips in a strange, spur-of-the-moment passion. She'd tasted of coffee, weed, and something else that Cersei had decidedly attributed to her Spanishness. A nice and spicy flavor, but certainly no Jaime. It wasn’t like it’d been something she’d thought about before – she actually hadn’t ever given much thought to kissing other women – and there certainly hadn’t been any flirtatious exchanges between tokes, any surreptitious glances at billowing cleavage. But it had just _sort of happened_ in the way that these kinds of things just _sort of happen_ when you’re cramped in a hot-boxed BMW, sound waves of nostalgia seeping out of the speakers, and with a woman of above-average attractiveness slumped dazedly in the passenger seat. Taena’s legs had been spread in that nonchalant and relaxed manner of hers, arms hanging lazily at her side. Were all Spanish women like this? Cersei didn’t know, had only been to Mexico once when Jaime was obsessed with the notion of fucking right on the border. And so Cersei had thought: _Well now, that’s nice_. And kissed her.

In the end, though, it hadn’t been anything magical – just hungry mouths and greedy fingers digging into fleshy sides and tangled hair – but it was good to feel wanted, Cersei thought, appreciated. Taena hadn’t seemed to mind it either, throwing Cersei a teasing waggle of her fingers when their time had come to its end and her dark-haired children could be seen bounding towards her Range Rover. The ordeal hadn’t been mentioned since but still it hung in the air between them, mixed with the pot smoke, so that it filled the car and sat firmly pressed against their chests.

 

“All I’m saying is that maybe you should consider more specialized education for Tommen,” Taena is saying now, rolled joint held elegantly between her fingers. The end is covered in the faint red tint of her lipstick, and Cersei ponders the shade number, whether Jaime would like it, whether Robert’s blood would match it if she took a knife and carved her name into his protruding gut. ( _Probably_ _not_ , she thinks. He’d bleed some hideous shade of neon red that burned your eyes whenever you looked directly at it.)

“He could be autistic,” Taena declares with all the professional wisdom of a child psychiatrist. The image of Tommen speaking only to his cats in a confident stream of gibberish (and very rarely anyone else) comes to both their minds.

Cersei meets the diagnoses with a practiced and palpable fatigue: “My son is _not_ autistic.”

They’ve had this discussion before – last week, even – and the only way to silence it was to play bored and smoke more. Taena was of the opinion that everyone was mentally slow, or at least had their own place on the spectrum – herself included. _I think I might be autistic_ , she’d fretted fitfully over the phone one day, voice full of both fear and acceptance. _I really think I ought to see a doctor._

Cersei inhales deeply and watches as rings of smoke sail from her mouth into the air, trailing up and up but ultimately finding no release through the closed sunroof. She can just make out the silhouette of Taena's rising and falling chest through the grayish haze, and she wishes the rhythm of it would spill into her own body before she chokes on her own regurgitated oxygen. She feels itchy and uncomfortable and way too high.

Taena, meanwhile, is still talking – something about Dr. Phil and developmentally stunted children – but her words come out in a jumbled mess, not at all unlike Tommen’s made up cat-language. Suddenly the BMW seems too small, too claustrophobic, and the plumes of weed are pumping paranoia and anxiety into Cersei’s blood stream and she can't breathe, and, and...

And suddenly her lips are on Taena's neck and her cheeks and her chest, sucking hungrily and desperately on the caramel flesh as if the desire to do so has been lying dormant inside her all day (it hasn't). She doesn't know why this is happening or why she's doing it at all (still no magic sparks between their dancing mouths), but soon she's pawing at the woman's body in the way Robert had once handled her: drunk and horny and entirely without sexual grace. She wonders if she'll leave marks on Taena's arms but decides it doesn't matter – Robert never cared, _men_ never cared, so why should she? Their teeth clash and tongues swirl and it's odd, really, how little Cersei feels for the Spaniard when she's moaning and squirming in pleasure like this beneath her hands. Nothing stirs within her.

Cersei watches the scene from far away with an amused but detached disinterest that further reminds her, disturbingly, of Robert. But she keeps on going, anyways – to keep the high, to feel the pressure of someone’s body against her own. Most of all, to pretend she’s young again and Jaime is holding her close, pinning her against the back of their shared Oldsmobile and pressing his hard cock to her thigh. She keeps going for a lot of really dumb reasons that have absolutely nothing to do with her Spanish friend.

"Cersei..." Taena breathes, and the sound of her own name resounding through the thickening air brings Cersei back down to Earth, reminds her of her kids just a building away with their hands raised and toothless grins, so endearingly innocent and naïve (more so than she ever was). She thinks of Myrcella and of Taena's son, Russell, working side by side on a science project ("Does it look good, Mother? Is Jupiter too small, Mother?"), and how she had examined the child's face for traces of his Spanish mother while they’d toiled away. Save for the black eyes and distinguished nose, she had found very little of her friend in the boy. But then again, Cersei thought, she didn't really know the Taena who existed outside of her silver BMW.

But now Cersei’s hands are down Taena's pants, fingers inside Taena's cunt, and the only thoughts going through her head have absolutely nothing at all to do with Taena herself: "What will I make the kids for dinner?" and "Is this how Robert does it? Jaime?" (It's been so long since either have touched her – the stigma of mental illness like a warning sign tattooed on her vagina, “DO NOT ENTER”). Taena makes a move to snake her own hand beneath Cersei's skirt, but Cersei swats the woman away like a pesky fly. She doesn't want any part of Taena inside her because then, she frets, that might mean she's made something out of this. And that's the last thing she needs right now, another shadow at her back.

They continue like this for quite some time: making out and breathing in the polluted car smoke, Cersei selfishly refusing to give Taena the satisfaction of coming because that’d be too nice, too generous (and Robert had never cared about that either, the dick).

Taena comes in an embarrassingly forceful explosion anyway, collapsing back in the leather passenger seat with an exaggerated sigh that marks the end of their desperate scrambling. Cersei, meanwhile, begins to mindlessly clean the mess they’ve made, straighten the hairs gone askew, and snag a final paper and dash of weed as a parting gift for them to share. She sprinkles it, rolls it, licks it, avoiding Taena’s gaze as much as possible and focusing solely on the foreign wetness still clinging to her index fingers. _Hmm,_ she thinks while also thinking nothing of it. She wipes the glistening sheen off on her shirt.

It isn’t until Taena has let herself out the passenger door and is leaning against its open frame that Cersei finally realizes the school bell has rung. There are kids streaming out of the building and the usual hum of excitement at the prospect of freedom, another day of adolescent hell survived once more. Cersei sucks greedily on the joint, hoping to exhaust it before her own brood comes traipsing to the car with news of their day (Myrcella) and absolutely no news at all (Tommen and Joff). She forgets her manners and offers none of it to Taena.

“Can I see you tonight?” Taena asks, still breathless and possessing a certain gleam in her eye that makes Cersei’s squirm uncomfortably in her seat. She can’t believe the woman is actually _asking_ her this, and her eyes search the bustling crowd for Russell in a silent prayer for an almighty salvation. She throws her cashed blunt in a Ziploc baggy, wraps her fingers firmly around the steering wheel, and starts the engine. Pot does this too her sometimes, makes her antsy and stand-offish. (Well, more so than normal.)

“Same time and spot tomorrow then?” Cersei asks, purposely ignoring Taena’s question. She hears the familiar sound of her children’s footsteps – Myrcella’s light and springy skip, Tommen’s awkward and clumsy slapping of the pavement, and the scraping of Joffrey’s soles against the concrete. Taena remains leaned against the BMW, eyes beseeching and still asking that same damned question: _Can I see you tonight?_

Cersei clears her throat and looks straight ahead, “It was just the weed, Taena.”


End file.
